


Let You Know When I'm Ready

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would you,” Harry poses, pulling and bunching up the sheets absentmindedly between his fingers, tired green eyes on Zayn’s, “call this pillow talk if we didn’t sleep with each other?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let You Know When I'm Ready

**Author's Note:**

> Can’t really think of anything specific for warnings other than, uh, some plot-progressing, mediocre het sex and m/m/f threesome sex. Although a blanket disclaimer for all our works is always available at our blog, we're too polite to do this without a reminder that this is a work of fiction, with fictional characters only loosely based on real people, and are by no means suggesting that any of the events detailed within this fanwork actually occurred. Title from Hot Like Fire by The xx. [[LJ](http://hostagesfic.livejournal.com/2406.html)]
> 
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> [](http://hostagesfic.tumblr.com/post/32683357160/let-you-know-when-im-ready-lj-ao3-would)  
>   
> 

Harry can count the times it’s happened on one hand.

But yeah, it’s happened.

Drunk, but never too drunk. With Zayn, always.

It’s a side effect, honestly, of the way they live at the moment, the way that Louis is going out less and rooming with Eleanor when she joins them on tour, the way Harry and Zayn start sharing rooms. And Zayn’s always had occasional flings; they’re just that, occasional, no matter what Tumblr may claim. Harry’s bored, and asking for a single room is a hassle, and Zayn’s a good wingman.

So they pull girls together.

 

one;

It starts simply enough, really; it’s not a dark and stormy night or a once upon a time, but a day-off-tomorrow, everyone’s-out-and-it’s-okay-to-get-carried-away kind of night. Zayn’s always pulled easily enough- Harry’s the one eternally pinned as the charmer, but the way Zayn can chat up a girl (or when it gets down to it, a bloke, but that’s not as convenient) is effortless enough that Harry can safely admire it from afar.

The girl sitting across from Harry on a stool wears non-prescription glasses and laughs too much, but she has a great set of eyes that her low-cut top complements exquisitely.

Zayn is leaning against the bar in the corner, fingers loose around his perspiring glass, playing with the tiny straw lazily. The girl he’s talking to keeps watching the motion. It’s not hard for him to maintain an easy, shallow conversation with her, something about travel and music. He can’t help keeping an eye on Harry every now and then, glancing over to see his progress, how he’s leaning in closer to the loud brunette he’s been talking to for the last twenty minutes. 

The only reason it matters, Harry tells himself, if Zayn is talking to someone is that they’re rooming together and it’ll be impossible to get an extra room with Paul gone off to bed early. So Harry waits for the lull in the conversation that signals it’s about time he tapped the little round table he’s set his drink down on with his key card: he leans into this girl- Laura? Leah?- and offers to move their conversation somewhere a little more quiet and she nods easily enough. Harry’s eyes flicker towards the bar, where, with enough luck, Zayn’s probably doing the same.

Zayn’s not really sure what the protocol for bringing a girl back to your hotel room is when it’s already occupied- but texting Harry and putting their situation into words, asking _permission_ , is not something he’s willing to do. So he just watches Harry lead his new friend towards the door, nods along to some comment his companion is making, and finishes his drink before touching her elbow. “You think you wanna...” and they’re following Harry and the other girl not ten minutes later.

;

When Zayn slides his card into the keyhole and opens the door, it’s not even the worst thing in the world to find that both Harry and the girl he’s with are still fully clothed and she’s limpeted to his neck.

“Lana here,” Harry begins in that slow, dragging rasp of his, ignores it when she detaches her mouth for a second to mutter whatever her real name might be, “says she’s kosher with sharing a room as long as you two are. I haven’t really thought of something to do if you’re not, though.”

“Perhaps toss a coin,” Zayn smirks, turns the charm on and directs it at the girl on his arm. “‘s it cool with you?”

“Uh,” she starts, and there’s a moment where Zayn thinks this is going to get extremely awkward. But then she shrugs and rolls her eyes at herself, “Sure.” Zayn grins and leans in to press his lips to her throat, and she giggles a little, and everything’s going to be just fine.

;

Harry is focused enough on Lana riding him that he only vaguely registers that Zayn’s gone for missionary. The view isn’t half bad but she toes the wrong side of the line on loudness, while, off to his left, the girl Zayn is with sounds a bit like she might be having an asthma attack at one point.

Zayn’s been careful to keep his eyes on- he’s pretty sure it’s Ashley? the bar had been loud, and she obviously hadn’t cared enough to repeat it, although she’d been careful to let the spaghetti strap of her top slip off her shoulder. It’s getting more difficult, now, as Lana-not-Lana is bouncing on Harry’s dick just a couple feet away, holding her boobs and moaning at the ceiling. Zayn has to press his face into the pillow at the crook of Ashley’s neck to muffle a choked laugh at one particularly enthusiastic noise, and he never thought he’d be turned _off_ by sex, but he almost feels bad for Harry. And a little impressed, because he’s not sure he could keep his stiffie when faced with. It’s not that probably-not-Lana is unattractive- and Zayn should really turn away, stop watching one of his _best friends_ getting amateur cowgirl sex, but it’s just _distracting_. 

After Harry comes, he has to raise his eyebrows at not-Lana and tap her side to get her off of him. She doesn’t try to cuddle, which is probably in everyone’s best interests tonight. “Bathroom’s through there,” Harry points out, lets her give him a tongue-heavy kiss slightly off his mouth before she’s off the bed and gathering her clothes from the end of the bed. He remembered to put his toiletries in his overnight bag this time, always wise when there’s strangers in his hotel bathroom.

Zayn lasts a bit longer, and it’s not like it’s a contest, exactly, but he has some pride, after all. So he maybe makes sure to prop himself up on one elbow when he gets close, slide his hand down between her legs and thumb over the girl’s clit until the noises she’s making are _real_ , and she goes tight around him, heels digging into his calves. After he comes, he rolls off her and nuzzles at her shoulder a bit. She smells like overly sweet perfume and he’s all too relieved when the door clicks after possibly-Lana and Ashley’s rolling off the bed and padding to the bathroom.

Not-Lana cements her existence under that name when she deposits a nameless slip with ten digits into Harry’s hand and actually holds her fingers up to her ear in an aborted devil horns and I love you hand signal hybrid. Harry offers to call her a cab, but thankfully for him in the grand scheme of his phone being somewhere that isn’t within arm’s reach, she has a go-to cabbie she can dial. She’s out of the room with a bat of dark lashes, and Harry crumples her number and tosses it at Zayn on the other bed, smirking.

“Not a chance,” Zayn laughs, and his voice is rough, he has to clear it against the chuckles. “I saw all that.” And then he kind of freezes, presses his face into the sweat-damp pillow and groans, because he’s pretty sure he majorly disrupted the fine balance of hotel-room-sharing-while-also-fucking-random-strangers, or whatever this was.

It’s a delicate moment, and Harry likes to think he handles it pretty well- Zayn’s girl chirps her goodbyes from the door and Zayn lifts his head off the pillow and gives her a thumbs up, and before he can go back to trying to suffocate himself with the pillow, Harry catches his eye. “C’mere, you idiot,” he says, raspy and tired and friendly and maybe a little bit blokey, but effective enough.

Zayn joins him on the non-damp side of the bed, and if nudity is a problem, he doesn’t mention it. He does, however, rib Harry about not-Lana’s nomenclature fiasco and ample chest, and they crawl under the covers with their heads on the same pillow. 

 

two;

It makes sense that if the first time it’s an accident, the second is on purpose.

In Zayn’s defense, he doesn’t know Carly is there with a friend until he’s close enough to smell the whiskey on her breath, but it’s entirely his fault when he texts Harry to come over and meet the friend, a leggy redhead with a smattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose.

Harry makes his way across the bar quickly, slides up beside Zayn and takes the freshly-poured drink out of his hand, hands it to the pretty girl with that’s smiling cautiously at him. Zayn makes a small, disgruntled noise, and Carly passes him her own shot, leaning into his side- “So, now we can leave, right?” 

It only takes a little bit of persuasion for them to all leave together, pressed up together in the back of a cab, ginger Summer’s legs hooked over Harry’s, the heel of her stiletto nudging Zayn’s shoe. 

;

Neither of them is as loud as the girls before, and Zayn likes that, likes that he can bury his face between this girl’s thighs and lick her open and not _think_ about it. He likes giving head, especially when the recipient is appreciative, and this girl’s got one hand in his hair and the other in the sheets, pushing up against his tongue and moaning softly like she just can’t help it. He’s not a huge fan of the hair pulling, but she’s mostly just resting her hand against his head, distractedly, and it’s not _bad_. 

On the other bed, Summer the leggy ginger has her legs spread wide and Harry’s mouth covering one of her nipples, teeth grazing lightly. He’s found that it’s better when he’s on top, with complete strangers. It’s not something he’d _say_ out loud, at least not to anyone but Zayn- and that entirely derails his train of thought, of course, and although he doesn’t exactly stop fucking into Summer, his rhythm becomes lazy as he watches Zayn’s dark head of hair between Carly’s legs, the way he’s still got boxer briefs on but is palming at his cock through the fabric. A moan from Summer beneath him startles him back, and it’s safe to say it was entirely on purpose if the quirk of her eyebrows is anything to go by.

“Fuck,” Carly breathes, and runs her fingers across Zayn’s shoulder, digs her nails in a bit, “You can, you can totally-” 

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, pulling up and wiping his mouth on his wrist, grinning up at her, and- he catches sight of Harry out of the corner of his eye, and it’s probably just the weird angle, the brief glance, but it looks like. Zayn shakes it off, kisses her creamy thigh and shrugs, “Don’t you wanna come on my tongue first, though?”

Which- okay, Harry almost turns entirely to look at Zayn this time. He doesn’t _care_ about Carly’s breathy, groaning plea, but about the warm, determined smirk across Zayn’s lips as he ducks his head back between her legs. Summer’s a little more obvious, this time, with a cough, and when Harry drops his head again it’s with eyes closed and listening intently for Zayn’s voice, even when his mouth is otherwise occupied.

She comes apart shaking against Zayn’s mouth, thighs clenching around his head, and Zayn slides up her body, smugly. He gets the condom on with only a minute of fumbling as she tries to kiss him deeply, and then he’s pushing her legs open, fitting their bodies together and pressing inside. “So fucking wet for my prick, yeah,” he mumbles, and maybe it’s stupid, because Harry is _right there_ and he may well take the piss out of Zayn after this, but he’s also gone suspiciously quiet on the other bed. Zayn’s feeling just drunk and turned-on enough to risk it. “All wet from my tongue and so easy for me to fuck you now-” and Carly moans and says something back, equally dirty, but Zayn doesn’t even hear her.

For all it matters, Harry’s pretty convinced Zayn has plenty of fodder to rib him for. He comes first this time, too, buried deep inside Summer like it’s a metaphor from a book, and puts two fingers in her after he pulls out, thumb falling to her clit as a sort of apology for his distraction. She seems appeased, comes clutching at Harry’s shoulders, pulling him down to bite and suck at his lower lip.

Zayn _hears_ Harry come, or at least he’s pretty damn sure, the hitch of breath and throaty little moan seem like pretty decent indications, and the maneuvering afterwards only solidifies his guess. That should probably be more weird than it is, but Zayn’s listened to Harry wank off a hundred times by now, bus bunks and shared hotel rooms and even back to X Factor house, so. So what if being in this band has utterly skewed Zayn’s views of what’s considered weird when it comes to your best mates and sex? 

It doesn’t take long for him to follow Harry’s lead, anyhow, and when he moves his hand to Carly’s clit, she laughs breathlessly and pushes at his elbow. “I’d rather have a shower,” she says, nicely, “Believe me, the first two were more than enough.” And Zayn takes a second to congratulate himself on inadvertent oral prowess before his brain shuts down and he nods blearily as she moves to the bathroom. 

; 

“Would you,” Harry poses, pulling and bunching up the sheets absentmindedly between his fingers, tired green eyes on Zayn’s, “call this pillow talk if we didn’t sleep with each other?”

Absolutely nothing happens in Zayn’s chest because that would be stupid. He’s tired. “Oh, shove it,” he mutters, pushes at Harry’s shoulder half-heartedly, almost like he can shove Harry himself if he doesn’t, or. Or something.

They fall asleep before they can talk about it, anyway.

 

three;

The next time is the third and a first. She’s a radio intern, sat in on an interview that afternoon and stuck around for the show, and she’s a brunette with the lightest tan, dark eyes. They lounge on the balcony with beers and she’s laid-back, laughs at Harry’s wry, low jokes and wrinkles her nose when Zayn lights up a single cigarette. (Harry smiles at that.)

Her phone rings and she glances at the screen, makes another face- Zayn smiles, this time- “Sorry boys, it’s my sister, gotta take it. Give me half a sec.” When she steps inside, Zayn looks over at Harry. “All up to you, mate.” 

Harry’s a little drunk, half-hard in his jeans and a eyes heavy and contemplative. “Let’s ask her.” 

“And this is okay with the significant others?” she asks, later, leaning against the balcony railing and swiping condensation down the neck of her bottle. Harry shrugs, as mysterious as he’ll ever get, and Zayn says, “ _Yes_.” (It’s easier than saying, don’t believe the tabloids. Sometimes, Zayn thinks how it’s a little tragic that it’s easier to lie and live up to people’s expectations than to just tell the truth.)

“Just to be clear,” she says, “my ass is off-limits.” 

That’s okay with both of them. 

;

They fuck on the bed closest to the bathroom, duvet not even pulled back, scratchy on their knees and elbows. She’s confident and assured, doesn’t question the way they work together to get her undressed and then help each other. She sucks Harry to full hardness while Zayn palms over her breasts, fingers her off. Reaches for the condom and laughs when Zayn is already rolling it down Harry’s cock. Harry fucks her with his eyes closed, with Zayn’s hand on his side, and comes quick when Zayn’s fingers slide down to the first curve of his ass. Between them, she comes two more times and after Zayn rolls off her, pulls her hair into a bun, gathers her clothes, and steps into the bathroom.

;

Harry curls into a small comma on the bedspread, and Zayn is the one to get up, grab his shirt from the floor and clean himself off. He gets the other bed turned down and turns back for Harry, tugging at his arm, pulling him up and over. “C’mon, mate, let’s. You’re a mess.” 

Choking out a noise of exhaustion, Harry’s barely on his feet for a second before slumping onto the clean bed. She steps out of the bathroom and checks her purse for her phone, keys, and wallet. “Thanks,” she smiles, wiggles her fingers at Zayn and lets herself out of the room, and Harry drapes an arm over Zayn’s side. It’s all blurred and over too fast to think of.

 

four;

Her name is Lola, and The Kinks’ song keeps replaying in Harry’s head as she grinds her arse into Zayn’s crotch to the mindless thump playing through the speakers.

She’s pretty, and Zayn doesn’t mind the dancing, although Harry knows he’d rather be back at the hotel right now. They’re all tired, and he lets himself feel guilty for a minute, wishing he could speed this up, before he goes back to selfish. Harry’s been watching them for the last ten minutes, hungry and eyes a little bleary from exhaustion and secondhand smoke, and Zayn lets his hands settle on her hips a little more firmly, pulls her against him and grins when she smirks. 

Tipping her head aside, she gives Zayn what would probably be unsexy lazy eyes without the lights and the alcohol. “How do we feel about taking this somewhere?” she proposes, and Zayn licks his lips.

“I’m, uh. I’ve sort of got a friend here,” Zayn says, eyes flicking up to Harry, and he takes it as his cue to approach, drink in hand.

Lola takes the glass out of his hand and tips it back, holding the thin straw aside with her index finger. “Yeah.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at Harry- _Where’s yours, then?_ and then Lola’s response sinks in, and he can feel himself flushing under the throbbing lights. “Yeah?” he asks her, looking at Harry. They hadn’t planned on this being a regular thing, but. Harry hasn’t pulled, or doesn’t seem to have, and if it’s _her_ idea, it’s. Not a thing at all, is it.

She thumbs at Harry’s collar, licks her lips a little even though her lipstick is dark and will probably stain her tongue. So it happens.

;

She pushes Zayn down on the edge of the bed and pins Harry up against the wall, fingers pressing inside his shirt and popping buttons, and Zayn feels cold, watching them. Rubs at his arms and stays dressed, even as she unzips Harry’s fly and slides to her knees, takes his cock out. He wonders if her lipstick will smear over that, too.

It’s when she turns around, gives Zayn a loaded look with her hand around the base of Harry’s prick, that it gets interesting. “C’mon, hey, I can- multitasking is good,” she prompts, and she gives Harry an apologetic look as she gets up and helps Zayn undress. Her intentions are clear once she pushes a condom into Zayn’s hand, turns her back to him, stands with her legs apart, and bends down to suck at Harry again.

“Um,” Zayn starts, and looks to Harry helplessly, lets his fingers run over her arse. “I’m not sure-” 

She pulls off Harry again with a slurp, shoulderblades shifting as she looks back. “You gonna fuck me, then?”

Zayn frowns, holds her hip with one hand, the condom pressed tight to her skin in his grip, and dips his other hand between her legs, pressing fingers over where she’s slick and warm already. He thinks about asking, but he’s a bit afraid she’ll say something else, doesn’t want to annoy her, and presses his fingertips inside her, instead. 

Above them, Harry’s head falls back against the wall, and Zayn’s eyes snap up to follow the line of his jaw. 

She doesn’t notice- or at least doesn’t mention it- when, later, Zayn’s fucking into her from behind and he leans over, and Harry’s mouth meets his mid-way. 

After she leaves, Zayn is shaking a little too hard to hide, ends up on the balcony sucking down a cigarette, desperate. He’s not sure why it bothered him, this girl and her lipstick and bossiness, but he feels off-centered, a little wobbly. 

 

five;

The next time, it’s two. Zayn’s had his eye on them all night, and Harry seems to be playing along; they carry drinks over and then Harry leads the taller, blonder of the two onto the dance floor. Zayn talks nothing with the quieter brunette, pays for her next drink and shrugs off a refill of his own. 

It’s easy to lean into her against the bar, smile when she makes a comment about how the Top 40 station they’re blaring sucks, touch her elbow as he leans back. Zayn knows he’s not charming like Harry can be, but he’s not bad, and she seems interested. (And a little nervous, which is a nice change, because, being honest, they’re always interested. Always.)

Harry and the blonde weave their way back to the bar, Harry’s cheeks flushed and that mellow smile on his red mouth again. “Think we’re gonna go find somewhere quiet,” the girl says, gives her friend a loaded look, and the friend tugs on Zayn’s wrist without even asking.

Back at the hotel, the blonde- Ella, she says- walks Harry to one of the beds, straddles his lap, and shoves her tongue in his mouth. The brunette is much less forward, in comparison, but she pulls Zayn to the bed just the same, sits at his side and smiles shyly before pressing their lips together.

She tastes like bubbly-sweet alcohol and Zayn sifts fingers through her hair- her name’s Annie, he reminds himself- and lets their lips shift softly, not pushing the kiss. 

It’s a bit of a surprise when she nips at Zayn’s lower lip, giggles a little against his mouth, and pulls away. “What if we switched?”

Ella leans back from Harry, thumbs at the corner of her mouth with a scandalized expression on. “Um, yes?”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Harry grins, shakes his hair out when Ella climbs off his lap, nods at Annie, green-eyed and deadly.

Annie laughs and walks over, standing between his spread knees and placing her palms on his jaw, leaning down to kiss him just like that, easy, and Zayn doesn’t realize he’s staring until Ella clears her throat, raises an eyebrow challengingly. Nodding jerkily, he pulls her in with a hand at her elbow, and they’re mirroring how he and Annie sat just a minute before, but the kiss is entirely different. Ella’s tongue is wicked and adventurous, pressing against the seam of his lips and sneaking inside, and Zayn moans a little against her mouth. He hears Harry chuckling from the other bed, the sound of muffled whispering.

“Okay, okay,” Annie laughs, and Zayn turns in time to see Harry kissing along her jaw and Annie swatting at his shoulder. “Okay, switch again, but. I’ll kiss darling Ella, and you boys can kiss.”

“What,” Zayn says, flat, licking his lips against the stickiness of Ella’s lipgloss, and looks between the three of them, Ella, arched brows and audacious eyes, Annie, casual and amused, and Harry--unreadable, smiling. 

Shrugging, Annie gets to her feet and tugs Harry up with her. She only brings him as far as the end of the bed, then lets go of his fingers, and just as easily pushes her friend back on the bed and melds their mouths together, quick and dirty.

Harry gives Zayn a look, something like a _why not_ and _not exactly a first_ , which is exactly what Zayn’s trying not to think about, but there’s a kind of sweetness to it, too, like he’d be cool if Zayn didn’t want to kiss, either way. The _but I’d like it if you did_ goes unsaid.

And Zayn thinks, fuck it, right?

“Okay,” he breathes, and wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist, tugs him down awkward and too-fast, “C’mere.” Harry goes into his lap like he’s meant to, like they’ve done _this_ before, and they haven’t, Zayn has to remind himself. Harry kisses him and it’s nothing like Ella or Annie or any of the other girls Zayn’s ever kissed. Harry kisses him and it’s not even like when they’ve kissed before, drunk and buzzing and daring, or the one time they just couldn’t _help_ it, with the girl who wanted them both at once, because this time it’s stripped of the alcohol buzz or the pressure of other three boys egging them on- it’s not even about the girls prompting it, anymore, but about- not fireworks, exactly, but a nice sensation inside Zayn’s chest.

Zayn pulls away first, petting the inside of Harry’s wrist, watching him lick his lips. He doesn’t say anything, because he’s not altogether sure what to say, and when Harry smiles, he smiles back, automatic.

 

And then;

One night is just about the same as the others- Niall and Josh have shots lined up at the bar, and Harry’s eyes are scanning the room, but he doesn’t linger too long, doesn’t bother with gaggles of four or more girls or the gritty, lonely ones in too-short skirts.

Zayn’s about to shut his racing thoughts down, tell himself he’s imaging it, and that Harry will spot someone or two soon enough, but Harry steals one of Josh’s shots and turns to Zayn, “Wanna hit the floor?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at him, but finds himself nodding, and his fingers brush the inside of Harry’s arm as they move away from the bar. 

Surrounded by moving bodies, Harry leans into Zayn’s shoulder, mouth close to his ear. “Maybe we’ll find someone out here,” he says, but when he moves back a few delayed seconds later, he doesn’t look too convinced. Standing about on the dance floor is stupid, anyway, so he slings an arm around Zayn’s waist and sways in time with the music, licks his too-red lips and forgets to look around the room for a girl.

Zayn isn’t quite sure what to do with his arms, lets them hang, awkward, for a minute before sliding one under Harry’s and spreading a palm at his back, letting his other hand rest on Harry’s shoulder. “We’re shit at this,” he says, has to repeat it into Harry’s ear because of the noise.

And there are plenty of people- Zayn even spots an attractive brunette watching them from the sidelines, two blondes at the bar by themselves- but Zayn’s suddenly aware that he doesn’t want another hook-up tonight. Not with a stranger, not when they’ll be playing this game over her head the entire evening. “Haz,” he decides, leaning up to speak against Harry’s curls, “I’m not sure-”

“Let’s head back?” Harry proposes, brings a hand up to the side of Zayn’s head and holds him close- it’s not unlike how they talk onstage, but this feels a little more significant than pointing out a stupid sign in the crowd or asking about hotel arrangements later.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs, and follows him to the street.

;

He’s not sure what he expected, tried _not_ to expect anything- but the look Harry gives him as he slides the keycard in the lock is something he hasn’t seen before, never would’ve thought of.

They stumble inside, and Harry’s buzzed enough to have an excuse when he’s uninhibited, even though Zayn knows him well. “Good turnout,” he smirks, looking around the empty hotel room, grabbing Zayn’s hand and picking a bed at random to fall back onto.

Zayn stumbles with him, hitting the mattress on his side and propping himself up on one elbow, watching Harry’s chest rise and fall, and how he blows a curl out of his eyes. “Party don’t start till we walk in,” he mumbles. 

There’s a pause, the air heavy with possibility, and then Harry’s dropping long fingers on Zayn’s arm and leaning forward, tipping his chin, and pressing his lips to Zayn’s. It’s easy and slow, but there’s purpose in the flicks of Harry’s tongue at the seam of Zayn’s lips, in the way his fingertips move along Zayn’s arm steadily, tracing parallel lines.

Zayn leans into the kiss, finds himself distracted in Harry, his curls and the quirk of his lips and the tip of his hot tongue and the patterns he’s dragging across Zayn’s skin. He fumbles a little, losing his balance, and has to steady himself with a palm spread over Harry’s chest. 

Harry leans closer into Zayn, ends up, after quick consideration, pushing him back on the bed with hands on his narrow shoulders. Zayn’s smaller than Harry, tiny in ways that Harry is simply long and bony, but he feels full of warm energy, even through layers of skin and clothing, under Harry’s hands. He’s a fantastic kisser, too, follows Harry’s lead but asserts a certain degree of dominance in little flicks of his tongue and grazes with his teeth.

Making a small noise, Zayn hitches his leg up to Harry’s hip, pulls Harry in tight to his body. He likes how Harry covers him up, bigger and longer and broader, but without overwhelming or suffocating him. It’s good, has Zayn wriggling a bit from the heat pooling in his lower stomach, digging fingers into Harry’s shoulders. 

Straying from Zayn’s mouth, Harry trails his lips along Zayn’s stubbly jaw and slides a hand down his chest, cups Zayn over his jeans. He makes a pleased sound when he finds that Zayn is hard, can feel the outline of him, hot and straining. “This is nice,” he decides, muttering right below Zayn’s ear, “without distractions.”

“Is that what they were?” Zayn asks, “the girls?” He can’t help but arch a little into Harry’s touch, all too aware that he’s more than half hard in tight jeans, that Harry can _feel_ that and that Harry’s _choosing_ to feel it. He wraps an arm around Harry and spreads his fingers at the small of Harry’s back, pressing down past the waistband of his pants. 

Harry hums against Zayn’s Adam’s apple. “It’s a bit of a rude way to put it,” he concedes, kisses down into the hollow between Zayn’s collarbones. “But they became expendable, didn’t they?”

“Side of dictionary with your fry-up this morning?” Zayn grins, and cups Harry’s head with one hand, tugs at a tangled curl. 

“Birds’re usually into it,” Harry shrugs. He sits up a little, then, to have a good look at Zayn- dark brown eyes with blown pupils stare right back at him, and really, the longer they do this, the longer Harry’s convinced they should’ve cut the middlemen- women- a long time ago.

“‘m not a bird,” Zayn whispers, reaches for Harry again. 

Letting Zayn kiss him with a purpose, now, Harry relishes the way Zayn sucks his lower lip into his mouth hard, runs his teeth over it until it feels swollen. When he’s finally let go, Harry resolves to slide down the bed and bring both hands to the front of Zayn’s jeans and work his button and zipper open. “I know you’re not a bird,” he adds, way delayed but witty all the same.

Zayn curls his toes in the sheets, bends his knees and just _watches_ Harry. It’s... a little weird, and a lot hot, and some other nameless thing that has Zayn’s stomach curling up and he has to lean forward, prop himself up on his elbows and reach for Harry’s shoulders, rub his thumbs at the sides of Harry’s throat. “ _Harry._ ”

Sparing only a long-lashed glance up at Zayn, Harry dips his head and mouths at the outline of his cock through his underwear. He holds Zayn’s jeans open as far as he can and breathes hot over the head of Zayn’s dick, more promising than teasing.

Barely able to stay still, Zayn exhales roughly, fights every instinct he has to grab at Harry’s curls, push his hips up in Harry’s face needily. Harry’s mouth is red from their kissing, slick from licking-over by Zayn and himself, and it’s spread over the shape of Zayn’s cock in his underwear now. “Haz, shit.”

It’s a good enough reason for Harry to pull back a little, chew on his lip as he pulls Zayn’s waistband down. He taps at Zayn’s hipbone and Zayn lifts his hips obediently, even pushes his jeans down with one hand to try and help Harry, and once both jeans and underwear are halfway down Zayn’s thighs, Harry wraps a hand around the base of Zayn’s cock and, without warning, presses his lips over the tip, slides down slowly, enveloping the head with his mouth.

“Fuck,” Zayn breathes, bites down on his lip until the sting eases and he can taste sweet iron, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Harry, your mouth, fuck, your _lips_ ,” and he just has to stare, helpless, his brain sputtering through disbelief to wonder. It’s mostly in the familiarity of the gesture, Harry’s fingers tight but not too-tight at the base of his dick, thumb pressing at the vein on the underside, other hand spread on Zayn’s thigh, comforting but also a reminder that Harry _could_ hold him down. And Harry’s mouth--Zayn doesn’t even have words for it, beyond just that, his _mouth_. It’s always been a joke, “got some cocksucking lips there, mate,” but staring down at Harry, with his tongue pressed to the underside of Zayn’s cock and his lips tight around the head, cheeks hollowed slightly, it’s _nothing_ like a joke.

Harry sucks dick like it’s his favorite thing in the world, eager but not sloppy, with the kind of careful technique that Zayn has to wonder about, will have to ask him about when he’s not- they’re not. Pulling off with a _pop_ , Harry smiles up at Zayn, goes right back to kissing down the side and laving the vein along it, tongue flat.

“Please,” Zayn stutters, and dares to move his hands for the first time, curling carefully behind Harry’s ears, tugging the slightest bit at his tousled hair. “That’s so good, don’t stop, just-” And now that he _has_ , now that he can think, now that there’s nothing and no one in the way, Zayn wants, wants, wants. Wants his cock in Harry’s mouth and wants Harry’s tongue in his mouth and wants Harry’s fingers, Harry’s prick- “I wanna, I want, you should fuck me. So, maybe do stop?”

Obedient but mostly fighting a smirk, Harry does stop. “That’s a _really_ good plan,” he says, almost congratulatory, and sits up. “Yeah, okay. I, uh. Gimme a minute?” There’s lube in the side pocket of his overnight bag by the door, and as soon as Zayn nods he’s off to fetch the bottle. He tosses it onto the bed from a few feet away, decides he’s tragically overdressed and pulls his shirt over his head, necklaces clicking together over his chest. His jeans and underwear go next- there’s no need for modesty with Zayn, who’s seen Harry starkers fewer times than possibly only Louis.

It’s not an unfamiliar sight, Harry’s strong torso, the v-cut of his hips, lanky, pale thighs- even the hard length of his cock. But it’s new, in this moment, the way his eyes are dark and fixed, heated, on Zayn’s. It’s intense and heady, and Zayn struggles upright, shoving his pants down his legs, shrugging his shirt off and pulling Harry back to him on the mattress, pressing a kiss to his temple and again to his mouth. 

Harry braves slipping his hands into Zayn’s hair- he seldom lets girls do it, but Harry takes the chance anyway, testing the waters of just how many exceptions Zayn’s willing to make, how special tonight may turn out to be. It’s softer than expected at the crown of Zayn’s head- Harry knows Zayn favors wax above crunchy gel and spray when they’re not working, and he tugs a little, kissing Zayn eagerly.

Zayn feels it like electricity, fireworks for the first time, and he arches into it, pressing their chests together and tugging at Harry’s lower lip between his teeth. “Yeah, do that,” he breathes, mumbled against Harry’s mouth. 

Smiling devilishly, Harry pulls a bit harder, enough to tip Zayn’s head back a little- he follows him anyway, just to keep the kiss going, rocks his hips down into Zayn’s unconsciously, seeking friction. 

Zayn chokes a little, tips his head back into Harry’s fingers so he doesn’t cough into Harry’s mouth, swallows desperately. There’s a noise somewhere in there, as well, Harry’s name and helplessness and- Zayn can feel his eyes slide shut, his mouth drop open, and he’d be embarrassed but he’s too turned on. 

Harry keeps a hand in Zayn’s hair and gives him a furrow-browed look of poorly masked amusement. “Noted, then,” he mumbles, moving his other hand down Zayn’s chest, ribs, stomach, fingertips dancing into the dip of his hip and entirely bypassing his cock in favor of the skin right behind his balls and rubbing there experimentally.

Zayn’s chin jerks down and he glares at Harry, betrayed. But it’s just for half a second, before his face smoothes out and he’s clutching Harry’s elbow, blunt nails digging into the soft inside, legs spreading awkwardly to accommodate Harry’s fingers. “Yeah, you got the stuff, c’mon.”

Nodding with a subdued smile, Harry sits between Zayn’s legs, pushes them up and apart and reaches for the lube. He snaps the top and slicks his fingers, swipes his tongue across his lips absentmindedly and rubs at Zayn’s entrance with his fingertips before pushing a single digit in to the knuckle, steady.

Zayn shudders through it, biting his lip and then releasing it at the sting, licking over where it’s slightly crusted with blood. Harry’s being careful and it’s not bad, but the angle is uncomfortable and Zayn has to prod Harry in the side with his toes, bat at his arm. “Hold up, just, lemme,” and he shifts back carefully, all too aware of Harry’s finger still inside him, how his body wants to clench against the pressure. When he’s flat against the mattress it’s easier, better, and he can bend his knees, push his hips up, and he nods to Harry, _go on, then_. 

Harry works Zayn open expertly, twists and curls his finger in and watches, triumphant, as Zayn’s face goes from uncomfortable to needy, pushing his hips down even when Harry adds a second finger. “Y’done this before?” he asks, because Zayn’s taking it like a champ, but he’s _tight_.

“‘ve tried it on m’self a couple times,” Zayn mumbles, cheeks heating, “just two, though, the angle’s weird and, uh.” He manages to catch Harry’s eyes, smiles a bit, feeling the dried blood on his lip crack, “couldn’t get as deep if I tried more, myself.”

Nodding knowingly, Harry pushes his fingers in as deep as they’ll go. “Luckily you have me,” he chirps, curling his fingers in and hoping for a favorable if not vocal reaction from Zayn. He’s getting a little antsy, cock untouched and Zayn’s golden-olive skin spread all out before him.

Zayn can’t disappoint, voice faltering around Harry’s name and hips corkscrewing up, desperate to take Harry deeper, harder, even as his cock jerks up against his stomach, glistening. “kay, okay, fuck, fuck me, alright?” he manages, when he’s got his breath back, is palming his dick with one hand and twisting the other in the sheets. “I can’t, Haz, gonna make me come like that an’ I don’ _wanna_ , you gotta give me more.”

“Ready, then,” Harry exhales, and carefully pulls his fingers out, wipes them off carelessly on the sheets. “I- wait,” he stops, goes to the edge of the bed and reaches over for his jeans, fishing his wallet out of the back pocket.

“You need that?” Zayn asks, quirking an eyebrow at him, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand. 

Harry shrugs, dropping the wallet to the side. “Didn’t know if you wanted it,” he admits, which is true- but mostly it’s about habits. He was raised proper and polite and concerned about his health, after all. “Last time I checked you’re clean, though, and _because_ of that,” he jerks his head at the wallet, “so am I.”

Zayn nods, then pauses. “Wait, last time you- you checked that I was clean? What?”

“Paul gives up our personal information alarmingly easily,” Harry deadpans, but laughs too soon for it to be taken seriously. “No, um, I just. I haven’t, really. Are you clean, Zayn?” It’s a little bizarre- he’s somehow not at all bothered by the unnecessary stalling, fond rather than annoyed but not flagging, either.

“Squeaky,” Zayn says, and holds out his hand, palm up, towards Harry. “If you want it, I’m not, like, anti,” he shrugs, a lazy move of his shoulders against the sheets, “I mean, you know that, shit. Just, I thought with you...” and he lets it die, because _I thought with you it was different_ is such a ridiculous thing to say. It’s obviously different, but Zayn doesn’t have to be _silly_ about it. 

“It’s a bit different,” Harry shrugs, can only mirror Zayn’s smile- minus, perhaps, the slight disbelief behind it. He moves back over to Zayn, reaches forward to thumb absentmindedly at the scab forming on his lip. “How d’you want it?”

Shaking his head, Zayn laughs a little, strangled high in his throat. Harry looks serious and concentrated, intense, and he suddenly feels light, head spinny. “Dunno, never done it.” 

Harry’s features soften a little at that. “It’ll probably be most comfortable on your hands and knees,” he suggests.

Zayn nods, pushing himself up, squeezing Harry’s knee as he maneuvers around, kneels in front of him in the middle of the mattress. It’s somewhat nerve-wrecking, turning his back to Harry’s warm eyes, leaves him feeling exposed and vulnerable for the first time. Still, since Harry drew his fingers out, he’s been missing them, feels empty and achey with need, too, and that’s bigger than the nervousness. “Please,” he grits out, settling, shifting his knees a little wider.

Harry’s warm hands find Zayn’s skin quickly, though- he moves closer on his knees, lubes himself up one-handed and leaves his hand around the base of his dick, using the other to hold Zayn open carefully. “Just- say so if you need me to stop, yeah?” he says, his only warning before he’s pushing in past the still-tight ring of muscle at Zayn’s entrance, lip held firmly between his teeth.

Zayn breathes out a “ _fuck_ ,” that’s more breath than syllable, eyes pressed tight shut as he tries to relax; Harry’s considerably thicker than the two fingers he’d been using earlier, and for a heated, tense moment Zayn thinks it _can’t_ work. “ _Haz_.”

Nodding although Zayn can’t see him, Harry prides himself in his ability to keep his hips moving in steadily. When he’s far enough in he settles both hands on Zayn’s hips and pulls him in, too, mumbles, “Doing good, yeah.”

As shallow as he’s breathing, Zayn’s lungs are on fire, and he’s going down on his elbows before he can warn Harry, face turning into the mattress on a dry gasp. Harry’s cock is huge and _hot_ and _hard_ inside of him, and he feels like he might implode. All he can think to do is just _take_ it. 

Harry’s almost surprised when he bottoms out, hips flush against Zayn’s arse. He has to loosen his grip on Zayn’s hips, too, if only just a few notches down from bruising, and take a few steadying breaths, swallow hard. “Y’alright?”

“Nngh,” Zayn says, and holds still as best he can, fights the shivers working their way down his arms and legs and- now, down his spine, causing his hips to tilt as he shudders, and it’s too much too fast, has him biting at the back of his hand, his lip tugging painfully against its scab.

“Hey,” Harry insists, “Zayn, just. Let me know and I’ll move.” He doesn’t want to be overbearing, grits the words out because this is getting to him, too, _of course_ it is when he’s got his cock deep in, surrounded by tight, unrelenting heat. He squeezes his eyes shut rather than staring down Zayn’s smooth back, the trace of ink at the back of his neck that Harry makes a mental note to set his teeth on later.

Fisting his hands in the sheets, Zayn forces himself up onto his arms again, gives himself a second for another full-body shiver and then cranes his neck. Harry’s face is flushed, eyes screwed shut, and it’s comforting, in a way, to know that he’s feeling this too. “Hey,” Zayn whispers, not trusting his voice, “Haz, fuck.”

Harry nods in agreement- he couldn’t say to what, exactly- and pets Zayn’s side, careful not to shift his hips. After a moment he opens his eyes again, blinks slowly, glances down his own chest to see where he and Zayn meet. “Good, yeah?”

Softly whimpering, Zayn jerks his head in some approximation of a nod, arches his shoulders and then, experimentally, presses back, leaning into Harry. Since he can’t really move any further in, the angle presses Harry’s cock up a bit, and Zayn gasps, warmth spinning and buzzing at the base of his spine. “Oookay, yeah,” he manages, and rocks forward again, unsteady. “I think you can- try?”

“Took you long enough,” Harry teases, drags his hips back halfway and pushes back in slowly. He does it again once, twice, until he’s rocking with Zayn, barely pulling out, just nudging deeper and then- not as much. “Really tight,” he adds, low, holds back a grunt.

“Well,” Zayn huffs, and licks his lips. “You- have you done this before?” Only after the words come out, gasping, does he realize that it might not be the time, but fuck it, Zayn basically said, _I’m a nervous virgin_ earlier, so Harry can humor him. 

Harry’s lips curl up. “I have on your end,” he offers, pushes into Zayn a tad harder now. “Couple’a times,” he groans, and fucks into Zayn a little more recklessly, daring.

“Bet they weren’t as big as you are,” Zayn mutters, and arches his back, pushing his ass up for Harry. 

“So flattering,” Harry huffs out a laugh that devolves into a low sound at the back of his throat. He leans forward, braces a hand on Zayn’s shoulder and nips at his shoulderblade, rolling his hips. “Taking it really well, though,” he mumbles, lips catching Zayn’s skin as he speaks.

“Good,” Zayn nods, letting his head drop down. Their skin makes soft, whispery noises with every thrust of Harry’s hips, a gentle smacking sound as they pull apart, and Zayn wishes he had Harry’s visual, right now, knows he must be stretched obscenely around Harry’s cock. He _feels_ like it, anyway, and the more he thinks about it the tighter the heat coils in his stomach, his cock jerking back to full hardness between his legs, nudging up against his tummy. “Fuck, Harry,” he breathes, “tell me, talk to me.”

The fact that dirty talk might do it for Zayn doesn’t surprise Harry- he’s heard him say positively filthy things while he slept with other people before, so it only makes sense that he’d want to hear it, too. “Stretched all out, Z,” he drawls, low. “Really, really good.”

Breathing hard, Zayn rocks his hips, a little off-rhythm from Harry, rolling onto his cock as he draws back and causing him to bottom out unexpectedly. “So, which’d’you like better?”

Harry moans, tries hard to keep his rhythm, even with Zayn meeting every other thrust with a push back. “Both’re really- really good,” he says, vague in his inability to focus on much more than indistinct phrases.

“Yeah?” Zayn murmurs, and this, this is good, with Harry moving at a steady pace, nudging against places that have Zayn’s eyesight hazing over with constellations every few thrusts, but feeling brave, secure, in control. Pleased with himself, he lowers his head and shoulders to the mattress, clenches hard around the heat of Harry’s cock inside him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry grunts, has to stop thrusting abruptly with Zayn clenched tightly around him. “Shit, Zayn, can’t-”

“What,” Zayn grits out, relaxing slowly and then rolling his hips back, trying the move again. 

Harry huffs through his nose, digs his fingernails into Zayn’s hip. “Can’t _do_ that,” he protests, because the heat’s been coiling up quickly in his belly and this- whatever Zayn thinks he’s doing- isn’t helping at all.

“Feels good,” Zayn whines, and presses a grin into the sheets. Maybe Harry’s fingers will leave bruises for the morning, if he’s lucky.

“I lied,” Harry shakes his head, thrusts in hard enough that their skin slaps together. “Might like this side better,” he says, words stumbling a little, careless.

“Just that good for you,” Zayn gasps, pushed up the mattress a bit from Harry’s last thrust, and the drag as he pulls out is so, so good this time that he whimpers. “Please, fuck, do- do that, Idon’tknowjustfuck,” and the end comes out all in one breath, desperate and broken, as Zayn tries to keep his balance. He’s _so close_ that it’s painful, is convinced he just needs one more like that from Harry and that’ll be it. “allIneed _please_.”

Harry delivers- he’s close enough that he’s unabashedly reckless, savors the sting across his hips and the front of his thighs, breathing ragged and rhythm erratic. “C’mon, _Zayn_ , fuck-”

Zayn presses his face into the sheets and he can feel his lip crack open as Harry hauls him back onto his dick, and he’s coming before he can say, choking for air and spurting untouched against his stomach and onto the bed. The only thing he can think to do for Harry is to reach back, blindly, nails scraping across his hip as he grabs hold of him awkwardly, a wordless command.

Harry follows Zayn over the edge exactly three thrusts later, comes with a long, deep moan and his nails carving half-moons into Zayn’s skin and his legs trembling, thighs burning from the exertion. His face feels hot, down his neck and reaching his chest, and a few stray curls fall across his forehead and reach his flushed cheeks, and he wonders, for the hundredth time that night, why he and Zayn ever bothered having sex with people that weren’t each other.  



End file.
